


Human Contact

by flawedamythyst



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-01
Updated: 2012-02-01
Packaged: 2017-10-30 11:20:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/331210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flawedamythyst/pseuds/flawedamythyst
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the prompt 'skin hunger'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Human Contact

Sherlock didn't really notice it to start with. No, that wasn't accurate – he noticed it, but dismissed it as an anomaly. He gave Mrs. Hudson a hug and thought that the electric thrill that passed along his skin was merely exhilaration at the thought that he would finally be living somewhere that wasn't a barely-habitable slum. John passed him a phone and their fingers touched, and he assumed the warmth that passed through him was due to having a flatmate – a friend? - who would comply with requests so easily.

It wasn't until he was slumped on his chair a week later, sulking that Lestrade had refused to show him the file on what looked to be a rather interesting murder, that he put those events together. John was sat at the desk, typing away at his maddeningly slow speed. He let out a little sigh, shut the laptop, and stood up.

“Cheer up,” he said, clapping a hand to Sherlock's shoulder and squeezing as he passed him on the way to the kitchen. “I'm sure he'll let you see if they can't solve it by tomorrow. Do you want some tea?”

Just the grasp of his hand was enough to send a tingle down across Sherlock's body. The feeling was familiar and he found himself listing the handful of occasions that he had experienced something similar. All had been when someone had touched him – when else had he been touched, and had he experienced the same sensation each time? It took him several moments to realise that, prior to the incident with Mrs. Hudson, it had been months since he'd been touched by someone who wasn't trying to kill him – he hardly thought a fist in the face counted.

“Sherlock?” asked John. “Tea?”

“Yes please, John,” said Sherlock, barely paying any attention. He hadn't really noticed that he had been touched so little in the last few years, and if he had, he wouldn't have thought it would matter much, not to him. What did human contact matter? It wouldn't affect how his brain worked..

When John brought him a cup of tea, Sherlock made sure to touch his hand as he took it from him. The same shiver passed through him as their skin met, confirming his hypothesis. This required further investigation.

The next few weeks yielded some interesting results. He went out of his way both to instigate and solicit touches from a wide variety of people, and found that the physical response came each time, unless he had experienced an abnormally high level of touching already that day. When it involved a stranger, or someone he knew he didn't like, it came with a vaguely unpleasant crawling sensation. Shaking Sebastian's hand, for example, had prompted a feeling so vile that it had completely drowned out anything beneficial.

By far the best person to touch was John. No matter how casual or fleeting their contact, it always left Sherlock with a warm glow that he was unaccustomed to, combined with an almost insatiable desire for more. He found himself standing as close to John as possible in the hope of prompting a touch from him. When he did get one, though – a shoulder bump and or a back-pat or similar – it was usually so brief and fleeting that all it did was prompt the need for more.

Sherlock began to push even further, confident that his reputation for eccentricity would cover any move too far. He took to sprawling on the sofa, over John's lap, but that only prompted John to use his armchair more often, and leave Sherlock the entire, empty sofa. He took hold of John's face on a case and then spun him around by his shoulders, and could barely concentrate on unravelling the problem because of the want that surged through him, the desire to wrap John's entire body up in his arms and cling to him as closely as he could. John pulled away, putting a few, hated inches of distance between them as he got out his phone. Sherlock turned back to solving the cipher and put off finding ways to alleviate this need for later.

It wasn't until Sherlock saw John holding Sarah after the incident in the tunnels that he realised just how much he wanted to do the same. He could feel the ache spreading through him, the thought of how good it would feel to be that close to John, to have that much of their bodies in contact. He couldn't imagine John allowing it though, so instead he turned away and glared at the nearest policeman. The policeman started, stared back at him for a moment, and then swiftly disappeared somewhere.

This wasn't working. Sherlock would have to find some way to get back to not noticing how long it had been since he had human contact – or John contact – and not caring if it had been several months. He couldn't keep reaching after scraps, because it was becoming very clear that it was not enough, and was only making him desperate for more. Seeking more might push John away, and that would be unacceptable.

He spent the next few weeks denying himself all contact with John, trying to choke off the desire for touch. All it really seemed to do was drive the need higher and higher, until Sherlock found himself lying in bed at night, fantasising about having John there with him, wrapped around him and holding him warm and close. It was ridiculous and distracting but he couldn't seem to push it away. Everything about John seemed solely geared towards making Sherlock want to touch him. His obscenely thick and fluffy jumpers that must feel so good in an embrace; the rumpled state of his hair in the mornings, begging for Sherlock's fingers to smooth it down; even just the smell of him as he passed close by Sherlock, warm and comforting and perfect for pressing against and breathing in.

Part of his mind began to hatch dark plots to entice John into an embrace. Faking a strong, negative emotional reaction – perhaps there was some mileage in the anniversary of his father's death? - would likely encourage a comforting hug from John. If he injured himself badly enough to be unable to walk unaided, John would be forced to let Sherlock wrap an arm around his shoulders and rest his weight on him. 

Sherlock tried to tell himself that he would never stoop to such machinations – if John ever found out that Sherlock had deceived him like that, he would be furious, and might even leave – but it was become harder and harder to believe that he would never give in to temptation.

Then came Jim Moriarty, and the bomb jacket at the pool.

The only thing Sherlock wanted to do, from the moment John opened up that parka to reveal the semtex, was to rip the thing off him and then cling to him, pull him in as close and tight as he could, so that nothing could get to him without coming through Sherlock first. The thought was stupid, but knowing that didn't make it burn through him with any less passion.

When he finally got his chance to tear the jacket off John, he threw it away, as far as he could, then turned back and just stopped. He couldn't engulf John in a hug, not now, the poor man had been through enough without adding in overly-touchy flatmates. John looked a bit grey, staggering back to crouch against the wall, and Sherlock had to turn away and pace off the urge to drop to his knees next to him and just hold on.

Then Moriarty was back and there was only one way to stop him. Sherlock met John's eyes, caught his tiny nod, and wished, more than anything, that he had taken his chance when he could. Too late now, too late for so many things.

The bullet hit the jacket, but instead of an explosion of fire and pain, there was just a bang and the air filled with smoke.

“Fascinating,” said Moriarty, his figure rapidly disappearing in the haze. “Well, this has been fun. See you around, Sherlock.”

There were rapidly retreating footsteps and Sherlock stepped forward to follow him, but John grabbed his arm.

“Let's just get the fuck out of here,” he said, coughing on the smoke. Sherlock hesitated, but John pulled at his arm, and he was alive – they both were – and chasing after Moriarty could wait in the face of that.

They stumbled back out of the pool, then out of the building, onto the pavement. The road was dark but there were cars passing and Sherlock could see two women walking together further up the road. It seemed insane that the world was still here, still carrying on as normal so close to where he and John had nearly died.

He looked at John, who was still holding on to Sherlock's arm, and remembered how small and vulnerable he'd looked in that bomb jacket. Before he knew he'd even moved, he was clinging to John, wrapping him close in his arms and pulling him in as tightly, just like he'd been wanting to do for months.

John made a surprised noise as the breath was driven from his lungs and tensed up, and Sherlock thought he was going to pull away – or try to, Sherlock wasn't sure he could bring himself to let go just yet. Instead, his whole body just relaxed into Sherlock's, and he wrapped his arms around Sherlock in return.

It felt even better than Sherlock had imagined. John was warm and the perfect size to fit against Sherlock, and when Sherlock bent his head to bury his head into John's neck, the smell of his skin was of Baker Street, and safety, and all the things Sherlock had never thought he'd ever find any value in.

“It's okay,” said John. “We're both okay. He's gone.”

“I am aware of that,” said Sherlock. He wondered how long a hug was meant to go on for, and tightened his grip. He wasn't ready for this one to end just yet. John rubbed his hand up and down Sherlock's back, and oh god that felt good. Tingling warmth spread all the way through him, as relaxing and comforting as a cup of tea after a long day.

_I'll make John tea when we get home,_ he thought. He'd appreciate that, and hopefully it would distract him from interpreting the evening's events in such a way that put Sherlock at blame.

A knot of tension at the base of his spine that he hadn't even known was there was slowly relaxing, melting away and leaving him with an almost unbearably light and loose feeling. He could feel his shoulders slumping, bringing him down even closer into John. It was blissful on a completely different level from the high of cocaine or the final soaring notes of a violin concerto. How had he not known about this?

It took him another few minutes to bring himself to pull away. When he finally stepped back, John cleared his throat and straightened his jumper. 

Sherlock wasn't sure what he was meant to say in the wake of that, if anything, and after a few minutes John saved him from having to come up with anything. “Right,” he said, glancing away at the street. “Let's find a taxi and get home.”

An excellent plan. Sherlock found them a cab without much difficulty and they headed towards Baker Street. Sherlock's mind was running fast down two very different tracks – the first concentrating on Moriarty and how he might track him down, and the other focusing on the physical, mental and emotional effects of the embrace, and whether or not John would allow him to do it again without the preamble of a near-death situation.

“Well,” said John after several minutes had passed. “I've got to say, I didn't think you'd be the type to want a hug after danger. I didn't even think you liked being touched – you usually flinch when people do touch you.”

That was no good. If John thought Sherlock didn't like being touched, then he'd never do it. “Because it's unexpected,” he said. “It doesn't happen very often. People don't tend to want to get close to me – I think they're worried I might be contagious.”

John snorted a laugh at that, although Sherlock hadn't really been joking. “Yeah,” he said. “I know that one. Being an invalid tends to make people a bit wary about getting close. I don't think I've had a hug like that since-” he paused, clearly having to think. “Since my parents died, probably.”

Sherlock stared at him, not sure where to start with that. “People really are idiots,” he said. Why would anyone not want to hug John? He was perfect for it. “And what about Sarah?”

John shrugged. “I'm on the sofa, remember? She's been a bit cagey about touching me since the fight in the tunnel – it's possible that shooting a man with an arrow in front of her has given her the wrong impression. I probably haven't been reacting the way she thinks I should be to having killed someone.” He was quiet for a few minutes while Sherlock marvelled at the stupidity of the world if saving someone's life made them wary, then added, in a quieter voice, “It's funny how much you can miss being touched.”

Sherlock looked down at his hands. “Yes,” he agreed. How could he express just how much he understood the sentiment behind that? What words did normal people have for the echoing emptiness of trying to remember the last time someone touched you with affection and not violence?

John glanced over at him, then out of the window on his side again. “If you, ah, ever wanted to do that again-” he started carefully, “that would- I mean. I wouldn't mind.”

Joy blossomed in Sherlock's chest. “Right,” he said, then, when that didn't seem enough he forced out, “I'd like that.”

John turned to look at him with a grin, and Sherlock grinned back then, unable to stop himself, reached out and clutched at John's wrist. John patted his fingers with his other hand, and they stayed like that for the rest of the drive.

Once they had made it back to Baker Street, Sherlock headed straight for the kitchen. Time to distract John from thinking too much about the events of tonight before he could formulate an adequate defence against the charge of having been at fault for any of it. “Tea?” he asked as he went.

“Please,” said John, looking around at the blown-out windows with a sigh. “And then we're going to have a chat about when it's acceptable to lie to me, and when it's a good idea to arrange secret meetings with megalomaniac criminal masterminds. The answer to both of those is 'never', by the way.”

Sherlock paused. Bugger. “Are you sure we couldn't hug again instead?” he offered.

“Very sure,” said John. Sherlock let out a sigh, and continued towards the kettle. The original point of making John tea was now moot, but he might still be able to to ameliorate some of the apparently-inevitable anger with a good cup. 

“But we might hug afterwards,” added John.

A smile spread across Sherlock's face as he flicked on the kettle. A bout of John's disapproval would be a lot easier to get through if there was going to be an embrace at the end of it. This arrangement was already proving itself beneficial.


End file.
